Learning from Anne Frank
by BubblyMoocows
Summary: KennyxKyle, KylexKenny. Yeah, yeah. Jewish, and writing a journal. Same old story, right? But this isn't Auschwitz, and I have Cartman, not Hitler. Maybe, with my blonde perv and oblivious best friend, I'll end up on top, and not in some death camp. READ!
1. Champing at the Bit

Bubbly: KennyxKyle one-shot now turned STORY that I've always wanted to write! I hope you like it! Inspired by my own art and antics, this is the gift for you guys!!

I'm sorry, but I think I'm gonna put WtFiY on hold for a while...But, it's fine. It's not really interesting. Oh, well. But it won't be paused for long, okay? I'm gonna start working on this now. Because, while meant to be a one-shot, I decided to change it into a type of Kyle's point of view type of journal thing! I know, I know, that 's exactly how WtFiY was supposed to turn out, but I changed it at the last minute. I wanted to actually do something like that, and I'm kinda fickle!!

Again, I'm sorry!

I'm out!!

Disclaimed.

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**7:18 am, Sunday, February 25, 2007**

I'm laying on the bed in Kenny's room, just awoken from a 3 hour nap, and his parents, brother and sister are out for the night.

I cast my green gaze to the window. **The skies were a muted, old lace yellow, embattled with a discourteous battalion of aggravated clouds.**

I love narrating my own life with overly dramatic, run on sentences like that. It keeps me _in touch_.

_'We just missed the rain.' _

The air from the room's AC ripples sleepily in wintry torrents, and I pull in a momentary ration of frozen mouthfuls. I cast my gaze to the wide-awake-and-watching blonde sitting cross-legged and chain-smoking in the chair across from me.

"Morning, sunshine."

"Mehrgh...?"

"And I love you, too, honey shnookums," he cooes in mock delight.

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We had just come home (to Kenny's) from a night of gratifying vandalism, the skin of our faces and forearms caked with swollen marigolds of orange, green and red paint.

I was actually quite the artiste. Who knew? After weeks of pleading and planning, I had gotten my fellow blonde artist to agree to my deed...

I mean, who else could I have asked? Stan? Fuck no, last time I mentioned something like this, word _somehow_ got back to that prude, Wendy. Traitor. She probably bribed him with animal crackers, again.

Anyways, I knew for a fact, that whenever Kenny was working on a major art project, that he got pretty into it.

And I mean, _really_ into it. Like, sweating, shirtless and swearing, into it. Damn, that sounds hot. Oh, sorry. Getting off topic again.

Well, he was quite surprised, to say the least. I don't blame him. I'm not exactly known as the most _defiant_ junior at Park High. But it was well worth it. We had tore along the school's back wall at almost four in the goddamned morning, donning black hoodies, waffled-soled sneakers and our jeans, armed with a load of lead-based spray paint.

I did have to take precautions, though; we took a break every 20 minutes, resting against the unpainted areas on the wall and eating from a pack of Oreo's we had bought from a mini-mart on the way.

I mean, Kenny and paint fumes? Especially, lead-base? Doesn't exactly match, ya know?

To my extreme frustration, he did die once, though, (by lead poisoning, or drive by shooting, I'm not really sure) and I watched and waited as he lay slumped against the wall, inadvertently and unconsciously (literally) leaving a big ass smudge in the paint job.

I made him pay for that.

For lack of creativity, I painted a distorted, swollen blue heart on his cheek. You know it.

Yeah, I said heart. Pathetic, I know.

But, I made sure to rag on him pretty hard when he came to around 45 minutes later.

We finished it up by taking pictures of our handiwork on Ken's digital camera, and making sure to sign the bottom left corner of the wall with our usual, joint stage names: Mr. and Mrs (I was the Mrs.) Luvcox.

I know, I know, completely Kenny's idea.

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I pulled closer into my (technically Ken's) black hoodie, enjoying the faint scent of cigarette smoke, fresh linen and vanilla. I yawned sleepily, and offered him a tired, why-the-fuck-did-you-wake-me-up look.

He's smiling at me now, and I feel as the blush blooms disobediently across my face. I see his charm is still in effect, no matter how ungodly the hour gets.

"Stop looking so cute over there, Broflovski. I almost creamed my jeans, I'll have you know."

That smirk tugs at the corners of his lips, and an undignified, irritated squeak erupts from my throat.

"Dude, do you ever sleep? You should cut down on the caffeine, you're creepier in the morning," I say pointedly.

He smirks triumphantly. "Sleep? Not with Mr. Jimmy Legs here. You kicked me in the neck when I tried to get under the covers, Kyle. But don't worry, I didn't die this time."

"Shut up, man," I grin stupidly, "You're ruining the afterglow."

He seems to muse over this comment, and a devious expression passes along his features.

"Afterglow? But we didn't even--"

I chuck my left sneaker at his head, effectively ending the attempted joke. He pouts and I try hard to glare, failing miserably.

"C'mon, I won't even have to strip you down! See, you're doing it already!"

He triumphantly holds up my sneaker. And I glare. Icily. I turn away and bury my face into the pillow.

One. Two. Three...Oh, Moses, here it comes...

"Ky...?"

Dammit.

My lungs (and somewhere a little bit lower) are now tight with that feeling of suffocation, and I dread the feeling his voice is causing me.

I open my mouth a little, taking in a biting drag and filling my lungs with the satisfying, artificial breeze. My lips are sore, and I bite them until they anesthetize.

"What, Ken?" I choke weakly, sparing him a unconvincing glare.

Blistering channels of syrupy blood pound in my ears, and I close my eyes.

"Nothin'."

I frown; I can practically _hear_ his smile in his voice. Weird.

Intangible plumes of expended breaths begin to puff out in front of me, and my chest feels strict and knotted.

I open my eyes again.

Kenny's handsome face leaves me with a complacent expression. My limbs tangle up in warm braid, and I close my eyes once more, as concentrated thunder erupts in my chest. It feels good in here. With Kenny, the cigarette smoke, the expended spray paint cans and the cold.

_'God. What the fuck is wrong with me? Kenny's just a friend, I hate cigarettes, paint fumes make my nose bleed, and I just fucking hate the cold...'_

"..."

I hate it when I lie to myself like that.

That almost intolerable feeling saturates my core, and my throat convulses and lurches instinctively. My eyes snap open as I feel someone in front of me.

Saccharine, watery, streetlight blue eyes are regarding me with an air of instinctive curiosity and concern, and tacit sentiment spills out between us.

_'He's worried about me. Kenny, you fucking sweetheart. I know you too well...' _

"Heya, sweetness. Don't be mad at me?"

I study those sugary, soda blue eyes, and the shaggy, dusty blonde bangs spilling along his handsome face.

"I'm not mad. And don't call me sweetness."

"Wha--mmph!"

I press my lips onto his, delighting in the velvety, smoky sweet. I feel his arms envelop my waist, lifting me up as I wrap my arms around his neck.

My probing tongue elicits deep, sultry moans from the blonde. Makin' out at 7:37 in the morning? I knew I was a morning person.

(INSERT HAWT MAKEOUT SESSION, CUZ I'M TOO LAZY TO WRITE ONE, CLASS ENDS IN 8 MINUTES, AND THERE'S SOME CREEPY CHICK READING OVER MY SHOULDER. THAT'S RIGHT, I'M TALKING TO YOU!!)

We're resting with our foreheads pressed together, our breaths coming in transient, labored plumes, sprawled haphazardly against the mattress.

I reach up and shyly touch the blue heart on his cheek. He smiles a dopey smile, and god, I swear it's contagious.

I bite my tongue in concentration, and reach into my hoodie pocket and retrieve an inking pen. He tilts his head obediently and I sign my name in a highly structured loopy thing.

"There."

We're smiling like idiots, legs tangled up in an agreeable braid of flesh of fabric, hair disheveled, the sense of contentment almost suffocating.

To prove my point, Kenny actually coughs a few times and winces. But he's still smiling, the dumbass.

My dumbass...My sweet, sweet dumbass.

Fuck yeah.

I flip our positions, effectively straddling him. My fingers sift up under his shirt, ghosting along a ribbon of flesh. He gasps, and I smirk.

He glances at the digital clock resting sublimely on his desk beside the bed, and gazes up at me with questioning, pretty, bottle blue eyes.

"The bus'll be here in 35 minutes, and we each have time for a ten minute shower. Enough time for you?"

I respond by slapping the clock off of its dresser and smirking.

Kenny whimpers childishly. "Hey, man, I enjoy the hot impatience and stuff, but I'm poor. And that cost me---"

I dip down and pull his lower lip into my mouth and smooth over it slowly with my tongue, pulling back to admire the reaction I had caused.

"Oh my."

I laugh.

"Ken, you're such a rockstar." He smiles contentedly. "And you're my groupie."

My face blanches, and Kenny liberates an amused snort.

God, we're _so_ cheesy.

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Bubbly: How was that? God, I loved writing it! I don't know, I had just finished a major art proj., and this came to mind!! Weird how inspiration strikes you! I'm really sorry about the progress of WtFiY. I've written out the chapter, I'm just not liking how it turned out.

Well, thanx to all my reviewers!!

I'm out!

REVIEW YOUR HEARTS OUT!!!


	2. Men Prefer Blondes

Bubbly: Hello, all! I decided that I needed another story to keep me up and happy! So here it is, the second chappy to LfAF!!!

Yay!

Disclaimed.

(dedicated to Famous Living Dead, Beemo, and style xx, you guys are so nice!)

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**9:14 pm, Monday, February 26, 2007**

"Arrgh!! Brain freeeeeeze!!" The spastic blonde stormed and skittered about in frozen fury in the gas station parking lot, ingesting untold quantities of lemon-lime beer salt, and paying no heed to the startled and frightened bystanders. I cover my mouth and suppress a snort.

Not like he really should, anyway. "They mostly come at night...mostly," I hear Kenny murmur behind me. Megh!? He's been spending too much time with the lard ass. Seriouslay.

"..."

Great. Two psychotic blondes. This'll be peachy.

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( Eight long minutes later...)

Tweek stood with his legs spread, trembling fingers sifting up and knotting into tousled, dusty blonde hair, eyes closed, and mouth twisted in overrated agony.

I tug nervously at my too-tight (emostyle!!) jeans, and chew meditatively on the end of my hoodie's sleeve. Kenny stands behind me, scouting out a stick of gum from his pocket.

Tweek's Berry Blue slushie cup lay crestfallen upon the pavement. "Ayagghhh!!" A few subdued whines passed his lips, and he painstakingly settled himself onto the curb.

He tugged harshly at his hair in frustration, whimpering slightly. Kenny bit his tongue in determination, chucking the new-found gum at Tweek's head, a little victory whoop erupting from his lips.

Wrong move, dumb fuck.

Kenny's attack, in turn, elicits cries of bloody mutiny from the town spazz, causing a crowd of people to look over our way.

"Heh..."

Kenny convulses satisfyingly at the glare I throw offhandedly over my shoulder. "It's minty...?" He whispers lamely.

I sigh, and roll my eyes, walking over to sit down next to Tweek. My bitch (a.k.a Kenny) follows obediently.

"Hey, dude." I poke him in the side, and he pulls his head from his arms. "Kyle...? Kenny? What're you guys d-doing here?"

A shit eating grin finds my lips, and I tug an arm around his shoulder, hugging the boy closer to me. "Well, Kenny and I...we need one more person, and we'd thought you'd be great--"

I stop mid sentence, idly mulling over the look of pure terror expressed on his face. "Uh, Tweek?"

He closes his eyes and scoots over quickly, and I turn around to look at Kenny, as if expecting something dire.

I find him sitting there, trying to lick his nose. Innocent enough, I guess.

He catches me staring and breaks out into an **'Am-I-turning-you-on?-'cuz-I'm-willing' **type of smile.

"That's boss, huh, Kyle?"

I stare. Hard.

(**Boss**: In Ken speak, it can convey: **Definition 1**. Fuckin' Sweet. **Definition 2**. A more casual version of, "Fuckin' Sweet.")

I blink stupidly, and turn my attention back a to a sputtering, flustered Tweek.

"Oh, no! I am **not **helping you with...with _that_, again! You guys are animals! Have you no decency!?"

"Uh...What?"

I continue to stare at him blankly, Kenny snickering behind me, a stick of gum wedged between his teeth. I turn around and tug on a lock of his hair, promptly ending the train of winded curses and snorts. When I turn back around to face the other, less perverted blonde, I hear one of Kenny's growls, and feel as he tries to actually **bite **the side of my head.

I know; adorable, right?

Ignoring Kenny's...behavior (?) , I decide to try my luck once more. "But, Tweek, I wasn't--"

I'm abruptly cut off by a strain of disturbed screams.

Graawr.

"I already told you, Kyle! I'm allergic to whipped cream, and leather gives me rashes!!"

"...!?"

I then begin to choke violently on my own saliva, while Kenny collapses in a seizure-y fit of turbulent, disorderly laughter beside me.

Shit.

"Dude, that is so--"

I lean over to tug harshly on the drawstrings of Kenny's parka, effectively muffling his laughter.

"Shut up, dude!"

So that's what this is about? Fine. I don't blame him. So the lace on the corset gave him rashes. And, that he was too 'ADDuh' to remember the safety word (it was STOP. Too bad that Kenny took this as encouragement. ).

My face blanches at the memory.

No biggy. I can fix this.

"Nah, man, that isn't what we're here for..." He fidgets nervously at my **'but-maybe-we-could-work-something-out' **type of smile.

"Um...o-okay?"

I'm told that I can be very persuasive. I mean, my dad's a lawyer, right? It's in my blood.

I clasp my hands together in a very business-like fashion, nodding my head and turning to him, ready to pitch my idea.

"Well...," I start off firmly, "mmrgh?!"

So much for that.

My head is unexpectedly pulled under Kenny's arm in a headlock, and my captor leans over casually, a sugary pink gum bubble resting on his lips.

Tweek winces at the popping sound. The bubble is dead.

"Tweekers...You've got it all wrong, shnookums," I squirm in protest. That's **my** pet name! I sink my teeth into his forearm, mewling like an aggravated kitten.

Kenny, to my extreme irritation, continues. "We're trying to strike up a deal, per say..." He pauses thoughtfully, "With Craig."

Tweek tilts his head mechanically in wonder. "Why? Is it im-important? Gaah!"

Kenny dismisses the fit of convulsions accompanying the question.

I finally fight my way out of Kenny's vice grip. Kenny smiles happily and leans down to place a light kiss in my hair. Always the sweetheart.

"Well, Bebe," I ground out tiredly, "is having a party next week. You were invited, right?"

Tweek nods, scooting a bit closer. "Well, the masses demand booze. And not the cheap kind Kenny likes." Kenny snorts in protest, and I smirk.

"Stan is being a pussy, and Cartman's still building a crematorium in his basement, so that's ruled out. And we all know that Craig and you...you know... mollycoddle, and stuff," a small smile forms on the blonde's lips, "and we thought, well, you could hook us up, ya know?" 

I wince, almost busting a gut. Mollycoddle? The fuck!?

Kenny seems to be thinking the exact same thing, because he promptly dies of unrestrained laughter beside me.

Tweek eyes the corpse warily, and nods, smiling slightly.

"Um... I'll try, okay, Kyle?"

"Thanks, dude." I smile contentedly and sigh, heaving Kenny over my shoulder. I stand to leave, placing an **'I'm-annoyed-and-tired' **kiss upon Kenny's temple and turning around to cast a sheepish look at the spastic blonde.

"Um, a little help?" He smiles nervously, and approaches me.

So far so good. I touch my pocket, making sure that I had brought the animal crackers. Pink and white frosting, all _deformed_ cracker animals individually saved and released into the wild (taken out of the bag and given to Ike). Now to find Stan...

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Bubbly: Um, I know, a little obscure, but let me clear it up for you, okay? Kenny and Kyle go to Tweek for help, because he's Craig's little boytoy, and they know he can get him to supply some goods (booze) for an upcoming party. And yes, I promise it'll get better.

Oh, and I am so sorry for the OOC!! Gaah! But I really like writing it! And for making Kyle irresponsible about the booze! Grrrh!

I'm out!

REVIEW!!!


	3. Juice Box

**Bubbly:** I don't think you guys will really like this chapter. It's different from the other 2, but oh, well. I hope you do, anyway. It's REALLY OOC in this one. But, hey, don't like, don't read.

It's kinda choppy, and blegh. But, I'm a bit ADDuh, so yeah.

I'm in!

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**9:37 am, Saturday, March 03, 2007**

I snuggle closer into Kenny's bed sheets, delighting in the faint scent of clean linen and soap. My hair is tousled and my tight, black shirt has ridden up, exposing my navel and a pale ribbon of skin. I don't bother to fix it though, and cast my gaze to the ceiling.

"...mrehg."

Stupid Stan and his stupid...hat. I was out all night last night looking for him, lugging around my dead sweetheart (a.k.a Kenny) in a candy red wagon, Tweek squeaking and shaking along side it, being paid strange, almost alarmed looks from bystanders.

I dubbed the whole scene, 'The Carnival of the Damned.'

Artsy, huh? Nevermind. Lame captions aside...

Was he anywhere to be found? No. Instead, I heard he was at Wendy's, the slut.

Ah, well. It's good for him, I guess. Dude hasn't gotten any action since Labor Day.

I regard the discarded animal crackers on the carpet sordidly. They use their stubby, buttery arms to catch my attention, and they scream and cry: "Please, Kyle! Heeeelp us!!"

In an act of compassion, I begin to tie the ends of the bed sheet around my neck like a cape, raising my arms to the ceiling valiantly. My super hero pose, you know.

Don't worry, citizens, I'll save --

Kenny's socked foot unexpectedly comes down upon their sugary, frosted metropolis ( most call it icing ), and I gasp in shock.

I frown up at him half-heartedly, crossing my arms.

He mutters a stale curse under his breath, examining his heel. "Were those for Stan?"

"Yeah," I eye his snake bite piercings idly, "I've known you for at least 14 years, and I still don't get it. Didn't those things hurt?"

He stares at me amusedly, and walks my way, stooping down to my level and placing a light kiss in my hair. "Nah. After 17 years of chronic death (syndrome?), you wouldn't think so. Why? You plan on gettin' some?"

I wrinkle up my nose in thought, and he laughs, muttering something along the lines of, "...it's way too early."

I smile and stand, running my hand through my hair and yawning. "Kenny, I _need _you to --"

Kenny smiles deviously. "Dude, fine, we'll have sex, okay? It's, what," he casts a glance at the digital clock, "eight in the morning? And I already have like, 14 bucks in my pocket, if you want it up front."

I snort, adjusting my shirt, and tying my laces. "Fuck you, Ken."

He picks up a shirt from the floor and casts it my way, snickering deviously. "Maybe later, I promise."

Such a nobleman.

"Shut up and make me some coffee."

He liberates a laugh, and I smile. The epitome of sophistication, we are.

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We're sitting on the curb in front of Kenny's house, making lame-ass paper planes out of out-of-date, greasy newspapers and drinking from a crate of out-of-date juice boxes that Ken's neighbor had left out.

It's pure, unadulterated bliss. ( if you can't see the sarcasm, I'll cut you. Seriously. )

"God, Shakespeare's such a pussy!" Like I didn't know that. He wore tights. But, hey, so does Craig on weekends.

"..."

And, yes, I'm serious.

Kenny very agitatedly pitches his Literature text book to the pavement, and we both look on as a battalion of rats swarms in from who-knows-where.

Just one of the perks of bein' around Kenny.

I look at him pointedly. "Our babies need food, Ken," I gesture to the rats, "They're starvin'! The fields need a-tendin' to, and the cows need more feed. Oh, shucks,"

Kenny mopes, and I pound down the salty (what?) contents of another juice box. "Fuck, man, I'm hungry."

I try to pitch another plane into the air, watching disappointedly as it falls from my hand, attached by a sticky stain of syrupy car oil.

"Aw, weak, dude."

Kenny lets out a low whine. Kinda like a dog.

"C'mon, Kyle, speak Hebrew to me, or somethin'. I'm horny, I'm hungry, and your shirt is driving me crazy!"

I look down at said shirt. **'Eat me, I'm Kosher.' **

Heh, I'm such a tease. I toss the empty juice box into the street and turn to face Kenny.

"C'mon, Ken, let's have elbow sex."

(**Elbow Sex**: In Ken speak, it can convey: **Definition 1**. Lame ass sex (coined after a night with Rebecca). **Definition 2**. The act of rubbing one's elbow up against someone else's, either because of lack of a bed, or an unwilling partner. Can be very frustrating. )

He lets out a series of aggravated mewls and whines, before finally pulling up the sleeve of his hoodie. "We gotta use protection, dude," I say pointedly.

"...mlergh." Touché, Kenny.

I laugh as we set our elbows together, and he begins.

This is some hot shit right here.

"Kenny, that's no fair, dude. You got to be on top last time," I protest cheekily. He just stares at me like I'm crazy.

His assumption is probably right.

"Don't tease me, Broflovski. I can do things to you in broad daylight that even my _sister _would be ashamed of. And you know I'm not shy."

I scoff. He's so just shitting me. What kinds of things can he possibly do --

Oh my.

I'm suddenly on my back, my shirt pulled up above my navel, his left hand on the inside of my thigh and his tongue gliding across my hip.

Aw, shit. That's so wrong.

"K-Ken, stoppit. People -- people are...watching." I bite back a moan, and sift my fingers up through his hair.

How the hell did he get so good at this? I mean, did I just miss it?

He went from a four year old kid who ate the leaves of potted plants, to an _eight_ year old with an affinity for soft core porn. And from then on, we come to the here and now:

A sexy, seventeen year old blondie with a huge sexual appetite and the talent to fuel it. And who knew that the Jew would be fringing his benefits?

"Let them watch," he purrs, "it's not everyday that you get to see the Ken Master work."

Okay, mood officially spent. Ken Master? FTW?

Okay. I'm going to get up, walk back into the house, and make me an omelet, or some shit, because --

His tongue glides along my 'spot', about 3 inches below my belly button.

OhgodOhgodOhgodOhgodOhgodOhgodOHGOD!!!! Mood is officially back on!

I'm seriously about to cream my jeans when --

He stops. He just -- stops, just like that. What the fuck? Kenny? Kenny!?

"Why'd you -- stop!?" I stammer, red in the face. He just laughs, and sits up, pulling a nail file from his pocket.

"In due time, my beloved. In due time."

I growl, and stand, picking up the empty juice box crate. I smirk, and bash it over his head, watching in satisfaction as his corpse falls to the pavement. I lean down to place a kiss to the top of the crate.

"I'll call you later."

I begin to walk down the side walk, towards my place. I think I'll whistle a tune.

Life, is a bit enigmatic. And happiness, not automatic. But murder, of course, with a smidgen of force, may be neatly performed in the attic.

Fucked up, huh?

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**Bubbly: **Oh, god, I know! I made Kyle fuckin' crazy! Ah, well, he has anger management issues, I guess. I know, it was different in style from the other two chapters, but I promise I'll stop!

I dunno, writer's block makes you mass-produce a litany of sucky chapters, soo..

please, REVIEW!!! I see all these writers with so many reviews, and I guess I get a little anxious. But, I want to thank you who have reviewed me, becuz you guys are just so AWESOME!!!

AWWWW!!! Don't worry, the next chappy will be on track!

REVIEW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


	4. An Apathetic Day

Bubbly: I didn't really like how this chapter was written out, ya know? And it took a bit long to update, I know. Spring break means no school which means no computers, brah. Well yeah, if you didn't like this chappy, then please become my BETA READER!! I'd really want one, and I'd like to know how the whole thing works!

If you'd like to actually be my beta reader, then just add it in your review!!

I'm in!

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**(summer) **

**2:56 pm, Tuesday, March 13, 2007**

What the fuck are they doing?

I maneuver my tongue around in the dimple of my cheek, wincing slightly in the sunlight.

I peek over the fence to see where Mole and Kenny stand; Mole extinguishing his cigarette on the blonde's shoe, Kenny having monopolized his former lawn chair, drumming his fingers to a stereo's base line, his skin tanning to the always pleasant color of McNuggets.

Pure, unadulterated, delight. Oh, and the Phish Food Ben & Jerry's ice cream all over his face? Awesome.

I had been parading blissfully (means I wasn't parading, nor blissful) about the block when all of a sudden, a very stoned Kenny and Mole snatch me up.

I know, I know.

French _and _Irish? This'll either develop into an awkwardly foreign threesome, or some kind of tasty coffee hybrid -- so I had thought. Because it's _always_ gonna turn out to be at least _one_ of those two options. My Jew logic tells me so.

"..."

Anyways. Again, that's what I _thought_. But, no. They take me _here: _

**Christophe's back yard**, with the added bonuses of the Frenchman himself ranting on about the ills of Christian society whilst filling up a kiddy pool via water hose, Kenny reclining in a lawn chair, and me sitting here behind the gate -- because they, uh, told me to. ( **the real reason: **I had gone all seizure-ey at the sight of Christophe's tea cup poodle, Lady Gyllenhaal. Cree-py shit. )

...Jesus.

So.

**The Kiddy Pool, **anyways, is a garish, almost violently offensive shade of fluorescent yellow, mottled with swollen, pink ducks.

"..."

**2:59 pm, Tuesday, March 13, 2007:**

I successfully manage to repress the urge to unleash a violently powerful arsenal of projectile vomit.

**Kyle:1. Pool: 7. **

Don't ask.

**3:04 pm, Tuesday, March 13, 2007:**

My skin is sticky with sweat, and my bangs are plastered to my forehead and the sides of my face. My jeans are tight (and black ), and the fabric is really starting to reek an unjustly comical havoc upon **'Little Kyle.' **

I mean, it's 97.2 degrees outside, my very adorable boyfriend is a mere ten feet away from me, lying innocently upon a **make-shift nookie day bed **(also known as a lawn chair), and I'm starting to want to sink my teeth into that kiddy pool.

Grawwr, baby.

**An unsuspecting Stan **would be nice, right now.

I know, I know: Creepy, huh?

**3:06 pm, Tuesday, March 13, 2007:**

I recited a few of David Bowie's lyrics out loud. Earned a bunch of odd looks from the old couple next door.

**3:08 pm, Tuesday, March 13, 2007:**

Spoke to a ladybug using **Internet Speak**. ROTFL.

**3:11 pm, Tuesday, March 13, 2007:**

FTW.

**3:14 pm, Tuesday, March 13, 2007:**

I hear Christophe call my name, and I sigh, getting up from the grass.

I push the gate open, and feel as a few splinters ebb their way into my fingertips. Fuck you , too, **Gate. **

I look around the yard. **I look again**. And one more time for good measure.

Where the fuck 'd they go?

The **sexy Frenchman and Irishman **are nowhere to be found. And **The Kiddy Pool **lies agreeably in the middle of yard, beckoning.

"Uh, Kenny? Mole?"

Nowhere to be seen.

Both dumbasses have gone AWOL, and now I'm left here with Christophe's creepy poodle thing.

...Blergh.

**It **stares up at me with these **please-touch-me **eyes, and **It's **pink (what?) fur is all done up with bread bag twisty-ties and whorish, blue glitter.

"...uh?"

Touché.

Is that a crucifix around **It's **neck?

Hm.

I'll have to ask Christophe about that later. I stoop down to **It's **level, pulling a fake, **god-don't-hurt-me **smile.

"Er, hey, doggie." Ultra lame.

**It **begins to tippy-tippy-tap around on **It's **feet, and I laugh. Maybe **It's** not so bad, after--

_Whooosh_! **It's** promptly struck by a passing arrow (what?), bringing **It** down to the ground.

Holy, Jesus, dude!?

**It** promptly begins to emit a litany of pained cries of torment and anguish, **It's **little pink body writhing pitiably upon the patio.

What the FUCK is up with Lady Gyllenhaal?! I began to panic (naturally), making a total dick out of myself.

"Oh, dude, I didn't even --!"

"Stupid leetel beetch."

Huh?

Christophe is standing next to me, putting away a bow and some arrows, Kenny munching down on Bugles on my other side.

"Hey," Kenny begins to rock up and down on the heels of his sneakers breathlessly, "That happened to me, this one time!"

Eh?

"Dude, Kyle, we watched you the whole time. Didn't you see us? We were," Kenny turns to point at the patio chairs, "over there. You're such a spazz, man."

I allow him a few snickers, before bringing my hand down upon his tanned neck.

"Jesus, dude!"

**Violent attacks on Kenny (a.k.a love taps ) : **Satisfaction guaranteed.

I sigh, and place a sloppy kiss to his temple, making my way over towards the dismal abyss (or Kiddy Pool) allowing my self to fall into it's rule.

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Bubbly: Gerba Gerba. Constructive crit. welcome!!

REVIEW!!!!


	5. FUCC

Bubbly: I AM SO DEPRESSED!! not really. but I'm pretty sad. you'll know why after you read the chapter, okay?

Disclaimed like a mofo!!

I'm in!!

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**7:28 pm, Friday, March 16, 2007**

**Focusing Upon Cultural Connections **week is such a fucked up pain. Kind of like wrapping your spleen in tin foil and using it as a hackey sack.

Ugh, god.

**The Week **consisted of an array of different teens, a variety of religion (one Jewish kid and the remains), bloody fun activities, and the wholesome sharing of cultural foods.

Kenny found this to be, and I quote, "Quite boss."

The many f-f-fun as hell activi-tays are limited to:

1. Chatting it up with the most prudish teenagers in the state!!

2. Watching me, seeing as I _am_ Jewish, painstakingly scarf down pickle after goddamned kosher pickle. (they say it's for educational purposes only, but those priests are staring at me a little bit too much for comfort, if you get my drift )

3. Listening to a battalion of Catholic veterans tell you how much they appreciate "Sharing your Jewish faith with us, Kahl,"!!

4. Watching Kenny die a couple of exceptional, consecutive deaths, all food related!!

Can anyone else taste that? Is that -- yes, I'm sure it is -- liquefied vomit.

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I gaze across the room at Butters, his pretty face terror-stricken as Craig very casually explains the proper use of a corset and riding whip. Hm. Veddy interesting. I manage to catch a bit of the oh-so-smooth convo:

"Of _course_ you'll be able to breath with it on! Jesus!"

Craig now officially freaks me out. And he'll need to be getting that 'equipment' back to me. I feel that Kenny needs discipline.

I release a wretched, ah-darling sigh.

"This is true, **bona fide **hell, Ken, " I furrow my brow, mulling over my comment, "Not that I know more 'bout it than you, anyways."

Kenny snickers deviously, his soda-pop-sugar blue eyes narrowing in sheer amusement.

"Kyle, don't be naughty. Boners and church don't mix, dude. 'Tis not saint-ly." His arms hang loosely about my waist, fingers tapping lightly at the bottle-cap belt slung low along my hips. A gift from Kenny himself, of course.

Hm. His father's drinking really _did _pay off, in a weird, souvenir-standish sort of way.

"Ken, I _said_ -- aw, the hell with it."

He places a light kiss to the nape of my neck, hugging me closer.

"Lighten up, Kyle. This is what life is all about." Says the guy with recurring death syndrome.

I could almost laugh at the irony. Almost.

"And," he starts again, "To sustain this sexy life, I need food. Excuse me, broads. I am need of refreshments."

Kenny pulls away from me in a very pussy-like flourish of flesh and piercings, breaking away to choke down a few dozen more communion wafers.

What a joy.

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Twenty minutes later, and Stan is still chewing thoughtfully on his cookie cud, Kenny still goin' heavy on the Jesus.

I eye the communion wafers in Kenny's hand warily.

"They look suspiciously a lot like Alka-Seltzers, dude. You might wanna lay off on 'em," I reprimanded meekly, monitoring the spectacle with an expression of faint disgust.

"Yo mome shuh lay offh _me_," he combats.

I give him a slight glare, before turning to Stan. I raise my voice just loud enough so that Kenny could hear me.

"Hey, Stan, let's go find an empty Sunday school classroom. I'll be the shepard, and you can be the donkey, okay?"

I smirk deviously, and speak again in a lower tone, "I know how you like Bible stories and all. We could act out all your fav'rites...?"

I tug on his arm anxiously, studying his face. His watery, brilliant blue eyes are wide and innocent, and his cheeks are filled with food.

Fuckin' adorable, man.

He furrows his brows and pouts, before closing his eyes and swallowing. "Nuh-uh, Kyle."

What!?

"C'mon, Stan! We can even play the Three Wise Men, just me, you, and Kenny," I consider my comments briefly, "Cartman would have to be the cow, though, no negotiating on that one. Would not tap that for beans, dude."

A shower of crumbs comes down upon my cheek. Kenny.

"Ew, Ken!" He promptly ignores my cries of disgust. Such a sweetheart.

"Ey, guys, let's go find Craig. He owes me some gr-een."

I snort in confusion, as does Stan. Kenny chews on his thumbnail thoughtfully.

"Green what?"

I suppress a snort. Stan asks the most fucked up questions, seriously. Kenny waves his hand dismissively, just missing my head.

I growl.

"You'd play a good victim, Stan. Invest in The Theatre. Embrace your talent," Kenny drawls, a smirk on his face and his eyes half-lidded and lazy.

Stan just cocks his head mechanically, and blinks.

Blink. Blink.

Bli-ink.

Kenny leans over to smack a big wet one right on my lower lip, tugging on it with his teeth playfully before being whisked away by a scantily clad Bebe.

Huh?

I liberate a few of the mewling sounds forming in my throat.

Maybe I _will_ go try to catch up with Craig. He does still owe me all of that booze. Only one more week to the slut fest, after all.

I sigh tiredly as another horny priest very nervously comes my way. His goal: to practice customs very many few even know exist. Ew.

And Kenny lies in a frothy knoll of Alka-Seltzer-ey foamage. I _did _warn the guy.

Bring on the day.

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**Bubbly: **I know, I did get off topic. but don't worry, the whole party plot is still in mind, okay? don't fret!! and thank you to my wonderful reviewers!! YAYAYAYAYAYAY!!!! Oh, and it's only one more month till my b-day, when I can finally get my snakebites!! (I'll be fifteen!!)

I went to get them done today, but he says i had to be fifteen, even with parental permission. I let out a whimper, and I guess he felt bad, so he took me next door and bought me a red bull. I love you, Sven!!!

REVIEW LIKE HELL, MY MINIONS!!!

P.S: oh, I checked your profile, style xx!! that little vid thing was sooo cute! You made me uber happy!!!

And I'm so adding you to my faves list, okay????


	6. Fodder for Food

Bubbly: I HATE THIS CHAPTER!!!! mRRGOOFHDSFOURHSFHSFLFSALJSFKLJSA!!! But, hey, I've been thinking about some other stuff! Like my newer Style story that I'm working on! Yay!!! It's real cliché shit, though. But look out for it, anyway!!

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**7:31 a.m, Friday, March 30, 2007**

I stare blankly.

**Before-school-video-game **session and breakfast snackums at my place? Bad idea, Kyle.

This whole mini carnival of the damned continues for approximately 14 minutes, my two best friends making nice with frosted animal crackers and m&m's, emitting high frequency squeals, and busting each other's asses (metaphorically, of course.) at Kirby. Yes, I said Kirby.

They sit here, playing video games at 7:34 in the morning, Stan jerking and writhing upon the sofa, Kenny mewling and crooning in delight to the left of him.

I know; pretty damn cute, but: Who knew Kirby could _do_ this to a person? I cast a disgusted look at the harmonized trails of drool on both of their chins.

"Dude, you're totally -- cheating!"

"Can't keep up, huh, Stanny boy? C'mon, hoe_! Cuhmone_, hoe! Nothin' but net!"

(**Cuhmone: **In Ken speak, it can convey: **Definition 1: **A more cunt-ry version of **'C'mon'**, because my Kenny is such a sexy little **ghett-o baby**. (see: Eric Theodore Cartman) )

I sigh quietly. "Ken, you're not even playing basketball. Jesus."

Kenny turns to give me a quick glance, his china blue eyes narrowed in a very sadistic-ey satisfaction, his canines bared. "But Kirby is my _life_, Kyle!!!!"

Fuck-teh-wha...?

Even _Kirby_ makes him horny? And all those times I thought I was being hot. Ouch.

"..."

I distractedly watch as the pink, swollen thing (almost looks like an inflamed, infected lung, in my opinion) floats out onto the screen, eliciting child-like, **"Hell to the yes!" **'s from Kenny.

I bury my head into Stan's shoulder.

"Mrrgh? Shtaahn..."

A low whine directs my attention towards the television.

**'You Score!' **flashes across the screen in fluorescent orange, almost strobe-like letters, and Kenny promptly begins to animatedly and passionately molest the arm of the couch. Can you say _subliminal? _

Weak.

I sigh, and pull away from my buddy, leaning back and resting my head on the other, still virginal armrest. It's the only choice. I either risk discomfort, or - or Kenny's _Kirby induced salivary residue_. Sick.

I drape my legs across both of their laps.

Stan pounds out a wretchedly fake-ass sob, folding his arms, and gazing over at me with teary, bottle blue eyes. Kenny, as expected, follows suit. Oh, damn it all to Heaven.

I glare half-heartedly at the pair of big, glitzy, cornflowery blues, rubbing my temples agitatedly and sighing.

"Oh, Moses, what _now_?" I have no time for this, because:

I'm really pissy right now, I'm about to cream my jeans in a sort of masochistic fashion, and Stan's now stuffing his fuckin' eso-fag-us with animal crackers and potato chips.

Damn.

**School starts in: (commence lame-ass beeping noise time clock thingy from that show 24) 26 minutes. **

Just bring the shit on.

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INSERT TWO ENTIRE CLASS PERIODS CHOCK FULL OF UNBRIDLED SEXUAL HARRASSMENT, MUCH DOODLING OF ANEMIC POODLES, TROUSER TENTS (see: Kenny McCormick), AND BEBE'S TITS. (see: nonconsensual orgies)

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**Lunch Time: 1:23 p.m. **

I eyed **The Blonde **across from me with a morbidly rapt expression. What the fuck?

Kenny sat there at with us at our lunch table, next to Cartman on a Beethoven high, reading a book with a look of mild interest on his face, a garish pair of glittery, red, cat eye sunglasses perched atop his tousled blonde mop. A gift from Bebe, no doubt.

Hm. **Lesbian Courtship for Dummies? **Handsome bastard is probably still getting off to the diagrams, I bet.

Don't ask. I remember Biology all too well. Shudder, man. Shudder.

And for his lunch: lemon squares, sparkling champagne jello (also the work of Bebe), ribbon pasta (his favorite, after me), and a bottle of overpriced 'mountain water.' You know, the stuff the people of South Park piss in? And, hm, lesse, what else?

My limbs begin to pulse at irregular intervals: Pink...tacos? ...God, even his _food_ is perverted!

My right eye twitches madly. I really think I might be going crazy. Forizzeal.

Stan munches thoughtfully upon peanut butter celery sticks to the right of me, Butters sorting m&m's by color to my left.

Tweek is pulsing sporadically over a stack of stale Oreo's, Craig undoubtedly molesting him from under the table. Sick bastard. I briefly begin to wonder if the fun's consensual. Hm.

I glare up at Kenny accusingly. _I_ should be the one getting felt up.

Mole walks up to our table, setting down his tray next to Kenny. He very lazily shrugs off his **'Pink Ladies' **track jacket, muttering a curse before taking his seat. (Kenny is now officially orgasmatastical for the movie **'Grease'**, and he _makes _him wear it, because they're best buds and Kenny insists on calling him **'Frenchie.' **I really feel for the guy. )

Sigh.

I sense...something.

**Jew Hating Sequence **begins in: 1, 2, 3, 4...

Five. And with a war cry of 'Shalom, bitch!' and a very Cartman-esque laugh, a copy of **'Huckleberry Finn' **is promptly, and violently propelled into the side of my skull, and I wince in blinding pain.

I hate CartmanI want some nachos. I need some nookie. My bellybutton hurts. I hate my life.

Another offbeat tune would do some good right now. It's numbing. Nauseating. Fucking dangerous. Kinda like Codeine.

_Kyle, a now splendid young sinner, though certainly, not a beginner, when tired at nine, of cocaine and fine wine, he switched to cigars and paint thinner. _

Sounds like a plan.

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Bubbly: I soooo hated this chappy! Gahhhh!!! Meh!!!! Squeeee!!! Please review!!!!


	7. Good Morning, Fucker

Bubbly: ….. I hate it so much.

Disclaimed.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I sit and watch tiredly as Craig and Kenny load crate upon crate of Sangria, Sunny D (for Stan, of course) and dark liquor into the trunk of Christophe's jet black '58 Olds, the Frenchman himself reading a discarded copy of Ladies Home Journal, Lady Gyllenhaal poking precariously out from his hoodie pocket.

I take note of the cornrows plaited along it's tiny, pink head. It also seems to be wearing hoop earrings.

So very gangsta.

I inspect my cell briefly, possibly thinking of hitting up my lady bug friend, again.

LMAO.

I'm really bored, to say the least, and in serious need of some nookie. My blonde (nuclear)bombshell is playing package-mover-guy right now, Stan is growing rooted to the sidewalk with fear like some demented, epileptic mushroom, and Craig and Christophe are both taken.

I think I need some excitement.

Why can't I be the slut I've always portrayed in Kenny's videos? You know, riding whip, plastic crown, raging promises of promiscuity and all?

Why? Who says I can't? What's trying gonna hurt?

It would open up a whole new sub-division of new things, like maybe anointing my head in baby oil gel and writhing upon the hood of Frenchie's car, or makin' out with my out-of-it bestie, or maybe even touching Craig?

Shudder.

For reasons made known, I decide to take this Kennification of my Jew psyche slowly.

Lesse, this whole Jew-to-Gigolo thing will take some serious mental breakdown. I think I'll start with lowering my vocabulary level to that of my counterparts:

"Uh."

There we go.

Huh.

I feel in tune with the community. Weird.

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The sky is turbulent and gray, and quite possibly, downright stormy, but Kenny and Stan INSISTED upon coming to get the booze now.

I dunno know why; something about Bebe's party being two days away, I think.

Kenny and Craig are speaking in panic-stricken, **'oh-my-god-we've-got-to-get-this-shit-done' **voices, and Stan is very hysterically spilling out his emo-fucking-tastic feelings out to Wendy via cell-phone:

"We only have approximately 48 hours, Wends!" (I almost feel like inserting a few 'bejeebers' -es [what? in there, but without risk of making my best buddy sound lame is like literally impossible. I mean, he's already started on his fourth inhaler this month. Damn.)

And me?

Completely unfazed. It doesn't matter if I come _three hours late _to her goddamned party, because _everyone _already _knows_ that Bebe's parties only start when _I _get there.

Yeah, she's that obsessive. But what can I say? I seem to have this weirdo mind control power when it comes to slutty blondes.

But, I might try to come earlier. She always seems to get fussy when I don't show up.

The last time, I was temporarily paralyzed after being hit by a certain pink Volkswagen (I think the license plate read 'BL0-ND 69') and dragged to my house, my parents being (in)conveniently out.

I suffered three whole days of trying to wash Bebe's 'lovestains' out of my sheets, which happened to be coral pink and sweet-scented for some reason. I don't know, but I think that girl secretes Juicy Jelly Jam lip gloss from her every, artificially minimized pore.

I gave up trying to get the stains out after the fourth rinse cycle, so I just had Ike's 'cat' (some nomadic, pitiable yellow creature with decaying teeth ) chew at the pink spots until the all sugary flavoring came out. It made it a lot easier to wash, and the 'cat' got its meal.

And to think that my parents could've possibly saved me. It turns out that they were out on one of Ike's kleptomaniacal 'vaudevilles', or 'sprees' (my parents basically let my brother run around Wal-Mart, stealing random items. He has an hour to keep the stuff and live out his 'high', before they go back and return everything. They call it 'therapy', and it's pretty fucked up.)

Anyways...

Sick shit.

Christophe walks over to me, a cigarette poised between his **'oh-sho-sheckshy' **(as Kenny so kindly put it) wine-stained lips. "Zees eez amusing, no?"

I turn to watch as Kenny and Craig begin to fight over the last crate, both foaming at the mouth with pupils somehow dilated.

"Dumb beetches." (A/N: Gaaah! Don't kill me, I just had to do it!)

The Frenchman picks up a rock, and after a few brief seconds of deciding which dumbass to throw it at, he very deftly pitches it at Craig's uncapped, unruly brown mop (much akin to Kenny's, except shorter).

"Shit!" The vulgar brunette lets out a bewildered howl, his blonde partner looking around dazed as to where this wicked hell-stone could've possibly come from.

"Jesus, man!"

Craig notices the rock on the pavement a few feet away from him and frowns, triumphantly flipping it the bird.

Kenny laughs, turning towards Craig. "Dude, you're so palsy right now."

(**palsy**: In Ken speak, it can convey: **Definition 1**. basically, an either stoned, or even drunk, person . Often used to describe Kenny and/or Craig. **Definition 2**. A more casual use can convey either stupidity or ass-hattery. **Definition 3. **The name of Tweek's late goldfish, given to him by Craig as a sort of substitute for a promise ring. Oddly romantic, though. )

I turn to the sky, and stare blankly at a passing cloud.

"Huh."

I walk over to my spasto-fish of a best friend, pulling a bag of crack(ers) from my pocket and handing it to him.

A brief exchange of 'thanks, dude's and we stand there in silence. Hm.

I'm starting to think that this party will do me good.

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Bubbly: Mergh.


End file.
